Late Day, Late Spring : A Luxury And A Privilege

 Yesterday I packed a picnic lunch of Addeo’s bread, Delice de Bourgogne cheese and some nice, ripe cherries and hopped aboard Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike.

On about as pleasant an afternoon as one can hope to have, I spun down Creston and Walton Avenues to Yankee Stadium, where I crossed the Macombs Dam Bridge into Harlem.  Then I crisscrossed that iconic neighborhood to the Hudson River, where I picked up the Greenway and rode—with a breeze at my back, it felt more like sailing—down to the World Trade Center, where I took the PATH train to Jersey City.

After enjoying about half of my picnic along the waterfront, I zigzagged through modern office towers and charming row houses down to Bayonne*. A highway crosses over the line between it and Jersey City; a man I’ve seen before lives under it, in a tent, with a bicycle—it looks like a ‘90’s mountain bike—I’d seen on previous rides.  

The first time I saw him, his tent and his bike—probably a couple of years ago—I stopped and offered him food and money. He thanked me and refused both. I have been tempted to photograph him and his encampment because they seem to be as established there as the houses, apartments, stores and offices of the two cities he straddles. But I haven’t because I figure that if he’s refused my help, he wants his privacy. Could it be that he worries about being “exposed”—to authorities, or in general?

Anyway, after crossing the Bayonne Bridge, I rode along the North Shore to the ferry terminal.  After “rush” hour, boats run less frequently, and I just missed one.

Once I boarded and the boat pulled away from the dock, however, I wasn’t complaining.

Nice evening, isn’t it?,” a deckhand mused.

“It’s like we’re on a sunset cruise” I quipped. “And it’s free!”

“We take whatever little luxuries we can get,” he said. I nodded, feeling that not only was it a “little luxury;” it was a privilege.

Flowers For A Photo-Op

Springtime:Sashaying down the street to show off new shoes, outfits or hairdos.

For cyclists, it can mean pedaling down the path on a new set of wheels or in a new jersey (in New Jersey?).

For Tosca, my Mercian fixie, a Spring afternoon included a photo op to show off her tuneup. She always seems to find the right flowers for a photo-op!

One Ride, One Washout

 I’ve wimped out.

After taking a great ride, yesterday, to Connecticut, I was going to pedal out to Somerville, New Jersey so I could…watch other people pedal.

But when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t see out my windows.  It had nothing to do with anything I imbibed with my post-ride ravioli with Salsa Giustina*. Rather, my window panes were sheets or curtains of cascading comet-tails of rain.

Photo by Dave Sanders for the New York Times.

I wouldn’t have minded riding in gentler rain: Three of my bikes have fenders and I could’ve worn my rain jacket.  Also, it’s pretty warm today, in a late spring-almost summer sort of way, so a shower would feel nice.  But I am not about to start a ride in a near-zero-visibility torrent and the prospect of standing in a downpour to watch races—even if they are part of the once-a-year Somerville event—just doesn’t appeal to me.

Oh well.  Maybe, if the rain lets up a bit later, I’ll go for a ride—or to the Botanical Garden.  I’ve been there twice since I moved next to it (and got a free membership):  to see the lilacs a couple of weeks ago, and for the orchid show and cherry blossoms last month, just after I moved in. It’s funny, really, that I’ve been there twice (and a few times before I moved here) but I am one of those New Yorkers who has never been to the Statue of Liberty!

*—Fresh tomatoes, garlic, onion, mushrooms and red sweet peppers, simmered in olive oil with sliced black olives and seasoned with rosemary, freshly-ground black pepper and squeezed lemon.  Like many such concoctions, it’s best when it’s a couple of days old:  I made it on Thursday night.

A Little Too Close?

 Call me a prude…but shouldn’t they be on a tandem?

An Extracurricular Activity We Didn’t Have

 Mention “bike gang” and, for most people, images of burly, bearded, tattooed (How many more past participle adjectives can I use?) men come to mind.

Some folks in Plymouth, Massachusetts want to put a stop to one.  And it’s not because the “bikers” are breaking the sabbath—although I’d bet that some are playing loud music.

I doubt those bikers have beards or tattoos because, well, they’re middle school pupils.  And the bikes they’re riding aren’t Harleys, Triumphs or “rice rockets.” 

Some residents, however, fell as menaced by those boys on bicycles as they might by a pack of motorcycles thundering down their streets. The boys—whom police describe as members of a school “bicycle gang.”—allegedly buzz by pedestrians on sidewalks and stall traffic by riding—and popping wheelies—in front of cars.

I think the real reason why the cops want to fine the kids (or their parents) is not so much for their behavior. (What kid hasn’t popped a wheelie?) ln fact, the feelings of some parents were echoed by one who “enjoys” seeing the kids.  Rather, I think people’s concerns lie with their kids performing stunts in traffic and disrupting or endangering people—whether pedestrians, drivers or other cyclists—who are simply navigating their days.

They Bought It Back

 In earlier posts, I touched upon Schwinn’s history from its founding to its rise as America’s premier bike brand (or, as Sheldon Brown claimed, the only one with even a pretense of quality) and its descent, through all manner of mismanagement, into just another label you see in Walmart’s bike section.

Now, I have no reason to animus against Schwinn: I have owned and ridden bikes they made or branded and liked them for various reasons. In particular, I thought my early-‘90’s Criss-Cross was well-suited to its intended purposes and a good value.

Ironically, I acquired that bike not long before Schwinn filed for bankruptcy for the first time. People familiar with the industry have posited all sorts of reasons for it, but seem to agree that those reasons included 

—dismissing mountain bikes and BMX—two genres Schwinn could easily have dominated—as passing fads

—relying on their antiquated Chicago factory, which couldn’t keep up with the increases and changes in demand wrought by   The ‘70’s Bike Boom

—supplementing production by importing bikes from Japan (good), Taiwan (improved over time) and Hungary (did not improve, pretty bad to begin with)

—moving domestic production to Mississippi in order to avoid unions:  a move that backfired because it was inaccessible to suppliers and shippers. Moreover, some say that while those bikes were lighter and more modern in design, the workmanship wasn’t anywhere near as good as what Chicago produced.

I think that all of those missteps Schwinn made over roughly a quarter-century can be traced to hidebound managerial thinking that too often results from nepotism, whether by blood or bonds of friendship.

In other words, it fell into the trap too many family-owned companies fall into: Keeping the business in the family becomes more important than considering new perspectives. An outsider could have told them, in the mid-1980s, “Mountain bikes are here to stay” and that good lightweight bikes could be TIG-welded (even if it isn’t as attractive as nice lugwork or filet brazing). Also, someone could have told them that they weren’t going to sell bikes to college students and other twenty-somethings with advertising and catalogs that seemed to say, “Buy Schwinn: the bike your grandparents rode.”

When Schwinn was finally freed from familial control—i.e., when it was sold during bankruptcy—it started to make necessary changes. But it may have been too late. Then it became indistinguishable from too many other bike brands. 

So what got me to thinking about all of that? An open letter that the founders of Kona bicycles wrote to the bike industry.  They are friends who met, long ago, while working in a bike shop. Three years ago, they sold Kona, which they founded in 1988 because they weren’t so young anymore and, I guess, all of the issues that arose from the COVID-19 pandemic wore them down. Now they’ve bought the company back because, they felt, the new owners—Kent Outdoors—were turning into something they didn’t recognize or like.

Jake Heilbron and Don Gerhard, founders of  Kona Bicycles

What I found interesting about the letter is not only the origin story, if you will, but also a seeming recognition that, for all of their success, they—or, more precisely, Kona—could just as easily stepped into the same mental quicksand that sucked Schwinn away. More important, they understood what generated loyalty among a couple of generations of mountain (and other) bikers and that Kent wasn’t delivering it—just as a third generation of family ownership and the investment groups that bought the Schwinn name ignored what made it so esteemed for so long—and what would keep that esteem.

A Spring Afternoon With Tosca And Jenny

 It was a perfect Spring afternoon: The breeze made me feel even lighter than the air around the sun-flecked leaves and flowers.

On such an afternoon, I feel as if I could ride forever. This afternoon, I felt as if I would ride forever, that I would continue yesterday’s ride—to Connecticut—and the ones I’ve taken along boulevards, through forests and among chateaux.

I didn’t wind my way along the Loire to Amboise. But I did ride to a castle, of sorts.

Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, was begging for me to take her picture. Of course:  Who or what wouldn’t look good in the light of our ride? I think she—and I—were both feeling good after I finally gave her a long-needed Spring tuneup.

We stopped at the garden in front of St. Raymond’s Church where, I’m told, a certain family with a daughter named Jennifer attended mass every Sunday.

She also attended a nearby Catholic school, since closed, before anyone outside the neighborhood knew about her.

Yes, I’m talking about J-Lo. I hear she and Ben are breaking up again. Still, things must be easier for her than they are for someone else who grew up a neighborhood over (to which  I also rode today). I mean, imagine being Sonia Sotomayor and having to look at Sam, Clarence after they destroyed the very thing that made her and other women’s lives possible, even if they never had to avail themselves to what it allows.  I’m no legal scholar, but I can’t help but to think that the “juice” for Title IX, passed in 1972, was supplied a few months later when a very different Supreme Court decided on Roe v. Wade.

Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about that as I rode. If anything, I was simply reveling in having a couple of hours to ride in what are probably the best conditions we experience in this part of the world—and exploring what is, for now, my part of it.

The Face That Rode A Thousand Miles

 Rosalind Yalow’s Orthodox Jewish parents tried to stop her from majoring in physics. Why? “No man will want to marry you.”

Well, she not only majored in physics, she used it to advance the state of health-care technology. That she did by co-developing radio-immunossay, which uses radioactive isotopes to quickly and precisely measure concentrations of hormones, vitamins and other substances that are part of, or end up in, human bodies.

For that, in 1977 she became the second woman to win a Nobel Prize in medicine.  Oh, and she married, had children—and kept a kosher home.

I mention that because throughout the history of bicycling, various actual and self-proclaimed authorities have tried to discourage women from cycling on the grounds that it will make us unattractive and less desirable to men and, therefore, unable to have children.

As an example, serious medical professionals and scientists in the 1890s—during the peak of the first Bike Boom— warned of the “dangers” of women and girls developing “bicycle face.”

I wonder whether I ever developed it. Hmm…Maybe that’s why I don’t have a man—never mind that I haven’t been looking for one!

The Mainstream Media Is Catching Up—To Me

 You don’t have to follow the news on NPR, CNN, CSNBC, PBS or Faux.  Or, for that matter, in the online versions of Time, the Atlantic, the New York or L.A. Times, the Wall Street Journal or, for that matter, any other publication.

You see, I am ahead of the mainstream media.  I have posted about a phenomenon that, today, about half of this nation’s newspapers are reporting.  Actually, they’ve not reporting it:  They’re running a syndicated Associated Press column.

And what is that big story on which they’ve finally caught up to my reporting?  It’s the post-pandemic bike bust.

To be fair, that story mentions something that I don’t think I said much about: The bust is hurting (or destroying) small, family- or enthusiast-owned shops, often in rural or inner-city areas, to a much greater degree than the bigger shops in suburban and affluent urban centers.  And it has led to another trend that disturbs me.

I will call it the “Starbucks-ization” of the retail bike industry. Increasing numbers of bike shops are, in effect, franchises or branches of chains, just like that coffee shop you love to hate (but where you sit with a laptop and a latté). According to the article, around 1000 bike shops in the US are owned by either Specialized or Trek.

In theory, that trend should benefit customers because it eliminates the middle-person. But has it? While prices for bikes, parts and accessories have come down from their Pandemic-boom and -shortage highs, they’re still well above pre-pandemic levels, even when adjusted for inflation.

Maybe this is the New Yorker in me talking, but I don’t believe that those companies (or Giant or Cannondale) have the cyclist in mind when they take over, or drive out, smaller shops.  If anything, I think they’re doing what Schwinn tried to do during the ‘70’s North American Bike Boom and the two decades leading up to it: They tried to control inventories and markets, just as McDonald’s and Walmart do in their individual restaurants and stores.

When my conspiracy theory, I mean prediction, comes to fruition I won’t say, “I told you so!” I promise! But just remember that you read it here first.😏

Ghost Ride

 As I ride around New York City, I sometimes see “ghosts.”

Now, before you assume that I’m going insane, I am—at least in the opinion of some people—already there. Seriously, though, among the “ghosts” I see are buildings that are vacant or being used for entirely different purposes than the ones for which they were intended.

Also, there are what Esther Crain, the author of Ephemeral New York (one of my favorite blogs) calls “ghost” signs.  They usually were painted on the sides of buildings to advertise some business or another.  As often as not, that establishment is long gone. I found an exception just a few blocks from my new apartment:

Tierney Auto Body works is still in the same location but the sign has to be at least 40 years old:  The lower part of the sign (not visible in the photo) gives the telephone number—without an area code. Until 1984, all five boroughs of New York City were covered by the 212 Area Code.  But as fax machines and, later, cell phones become more common, the 212 area code was running out of phone numbers and new area codes were added. It then became necessary to dial an area code when calling within New York City.

While riding the other day, I discovered another “ghost” sign that dates from around the same time, or earlier:

Prospect Hospital, its name barely visible at the top of the sign, closed in 1985. That sign, like the one for Tierney, gives a phone number without an area code.

Another thing I found interesting is the sign’s proclamation that “alcoholism is a treatable disease.” Although researchers and doctors had been saying as much since the 1930s (when, incidentally, Alcoholics Anonymous was founded) that idea started to displace, in public perception, the old notion that alcoholism is a moral failing during the 1960s.

Speaking of the 1960s:  By that time, artists and intellectuals who were associated with the later part of the Harlem Renaissance had moved to East Elmhurst and Jamaica in Queens or (as in the case of John Coltrane) to Long Island. But during the Renaissance, theaters for movies, plays, vaudeville and other kinds of shows and exhibits flourished in Harlem. The “ghost” of one “shadows” a building that now serves as a church on 145th Street:

So, if nothing else, my bike trips show that you don’t have to be Demi Moore, Patrick Swayze or Whoopi Goldberg to see “ghosts” during your ride!

On This Island, They Know The Difference

 Peak tourist season will soon begin on Mackinac Island. Located in Lake Huron, between Michigan’s Upper and Lower Peninsula, it’s popular for its beaches, hiking and biking trails—and the fact that motor vehicles haven’t been allowed since 1898, when pundits pronounced the automobile a “passing fad” that would never be of any practical use.

Perhaps not surprisingly, bicycling has been popular on the island, even during those decades when, in the rest of the United States, few adults pedaled.

Like all of those places—like my hometown of New York—where cycling for transportation and recreation has become “a thing,” Mackinac Island has had to deal with a particular problem: namely, those who would stretch—or ignore—the definitions of “bicycle” and “motorized vehicle.”

Now, here in New York it’s mainly a problem for people like me who ride under our own power. Even along thoroughfares like the Hudson River Greenway, which is allegedly heavily-patrolled and where numerous signs announce that eBikes are forbidden, motorized bikes that don’t appear to be much smaller or less powerful than motorcycles, and are not pedaled,all but graze us and pedestrians, runners and anyone else who isn’t using a motor.

In contrast, Mackinac police seized or ticketed 75 eBikes last year—on an island with a population roughly that of a square block in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Best of all, the island’s authorities are making distinctions between the mini-motorcycles I described and bikes that merely provide pedal assistance. The latter, according to island Police Chief Doug Topolski, provide “reasonable accommodation” for “people with a mobility disability.”

Moreover, eBikes that assist, rather than replace, pedal power are much quieter. And even their most reckless riders don’t wreak the kind of havoc that too many “cowboy”‘delivery workers and purely-and-simply inconsiderate joyriders inflict on cyclists, pedestrians and runners.

Happy Mother’s Day

 Some would argue that I have never been a mother because I have never had human children.  I wouldn’t argue with them.

Others, mainly people who have pets, would say that I am a mama, or at least a parent, to Marlee—and that I was one to Max, Charlie II*, Candice, Charlie I, Caterina and Sara*. I often refer to the six cats and one dog I’ve housed, fed and loved as my children or “babies.”

There is at least one thing, though, I couldn’t do with them that, perhaps, I could have done with a human child: ride a bicycle. Perhaps even more important, I never could have taught them how to ride one.

In any event, to all of you who are moms (Your children are always your children even after they move out—or, felines forbid, die) : Happy Mother’s Day.

Check out this image, and others, here: https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-board-print/Mother-s-Day-Bicycle-Ride-by-kilkennycat/47181892.TR477

*—Sara was a beagle-hound pup I had briefly, before any of my cats. While out for a walk, a man petted and played with her.  “My grandkids would love a dog like that.”  They played some more. “They could play with it in our backyard…”

“Your backyard?”

“Yeah, in my house in Pennsylvania.”

I let them play for a moment. “How would you like to take her?”

The man’s eyes widened. “How much do you want for her?”

“Nothing. She’ll be happier in your house and yard than in my apartment. She gets to go outside only when I get home from work.”

The following weekend, he took me and Sara to his house, where I met his grandkids. She was happy to meet them. And I was happy for her.

If You Have To Ask, “How Much?”

 In my youth (Yes, I had one of those!), I saved my pennies (OK, nickels, dimes, quarters and dollars, too!) so I could buy a Colnago.  Back then, many serious riders (and wannabes) saw it as the be-all and end-all of racing bikes. 

And, yes, I did race on mine.  How much of a difference did the Colnago make?  Well, I didn’t exactly make my fantasy come true:  My Colnago Arabesque would be the last bike (frame, actually) I’d buy.  Someone, i.e., a race team sponsor, would buy me my next bike, whether it were a Colnago or something else.

Of course, I can’t blame the bike:  I started racing later than those guys named Eddy and Jacques and Bernard. And I probably didn’t spend as much training because, you know, I had another job. For those guys, training was their job: They spent at least as much time at it as I did in my non-cycling employment.

Anyway, I am remembering how I saved my money for the Arabesque because I just learned that Sotheby’s is auctioning a Colnago.  No, not the one I rode. Is it the one Tadej Pogačar pedaled to the podium? (Ok, I was taking poetic license!) Well, almost: It’s the same model-V4Rs—but with a twist:  It’s gold-plated.

How many pennies would I have to save for that one?  Well, if I skip a few meals and museum trips and don’t buy any more bike stuff or clothes, I can afford…to go to the auction. It’s being held in Monaco. But once I get there, will I be able to afford to park my yacht?😏

The Worst Bike Lanes In America?

 What makes for bad bike lane?

Poor conception, planning and execution.  Oh, and shoddy or non-existent maintenance.

Too many “bike lanes” are nothing more than strips of asphalt or concrete delineated by stripes or arrows from the main roadway.  Some are even worse:  You wonder whether whoever designed or built them has ridden a bicycle since childhood—and whether they rode beyond their family’s yard or the local playground—or whether they’re conspiring with vehicle manufacturers and fossil fuel extractors (and other Trump campaign donors) to kill off cyclists.

I lean toward the latter after seeing Momentum Mag’s “These Could Be The Worst Bike Lanes In America.” There are the kinds of lanes I’ve ranted about in previous posts:  the ones that begin or end seemingly out of nowhere, the ones that go nowhere and those that are all but impossible to enter or exit.  Oh, but there’s worse:  lanes that merge into, or emerge out of, highway traffic and one that is sandwiched between 70 mph (115 mph) lanes of traffic, separated only by lines of white paint.

Although I’ve ridden on some doozies here in New York, none from my hometown made Momentum’s “worst” list. That lanes in Texas and Florida (which has, by far, the highest cyclist death rate in the US) are in the article is no surprise, at least to me, as I have ridden in both states. But I find it astonishing that Seattle and some supposedly bike-friendly communities in California would also have such egregiously dangerous lanes that, in some instances, are even more hazardous for cyclists than the traffic lanes.

The Trial of The Century--Almost

Warning:  Today's post won't be about bicycles or bicycling.

Many people, especially in the media, believe that at least one of Trump's trials will be the "trial of the century."

Now, call me jaded, but I've heard more than one court case so hyped.  Nearly three decades ago, we were treated to the spectacle of the recently-departed O.J. Simpson: that era's "trial of the century."  And, two decades before that, we almost witnessed a proceeding that, had it happened, would have been so labelled.

 A few days ago, former Times sports reporter pointed out some parallels between that O.J.'s case and the one currently playing out for Donald Trump.  One obvious comparison is the media spectacles that both have generated.  But more to the point, as Robert Lipsyte explains, is that people's opinions about those trials--and the outcome, in O.J.'s case and potential outcome for DT--have less to do with the guilt or innocence of the defendants than with people's political and social stances.  

As Lipsyte recounts, he was having lunch in a Boston sports bar when the O.J. verdict was announced.  "The diners, predominantly white, froze in shock," he recalls.  "The kitchen and wait staff, mostly black, were on the perimeters of that room, clapping and shouting."  Those workers, he said, saw the verdict as a vindication or "payback" for the acquittal, three years earlier, of four Los Angeles police officers charged with beating Rodney King even if some of them would admit that the evidence pointed to O.J.'s guilt.   

Similarly, even with all of the evidence that the 2020 election--which Trump tried to rig--wasn't "stolen" and that he has at least four decades' worth of financial, sexual and other kinds of misconduct on his resume, his supporters insist that current attempts to hold him accountable are "politically motivated" and the result of a "witch hunt."

Whether or not Trump's court appearances constitute the "Trial of the Century," had an inquiry into another former president's offenses resulted not resulted in his resignation, we would surely have witnessed the "Trial of the Century" half a century ago.

On this date in 1974, the Judiciary Committee of the House of Representatives began its impeachment hearings against then-President Richard Nixon.  The charges against him were mainly, but not solely, related to the Watergate break-in.  Those hearings culminated two and a half months later when the Committee--with Republicans joining Democrats (imagine that!) approved three articles of impeachment against him.  Had he not resigned two weeks later, most historians agree that he would have faced impeachment from the full House and a trial in the Senate and, possibly, the Supreme Court.  The latter certainly would have been that era's "Trial of the Century."

So, while TotC hasn't been announced as often as, say, the end of the world, I am still wary of applying it to any court case--even one involving Donald or O.J., or one that could have involved "Tricky Dick."  Then again, it was hard to beat the O.J. Trial for sheer spectacle, just as Donald's is compelling for the sordidness of the defendant.  Some would have said the same about Nixon's trial, had it come to pass.

Oxymoron Enforcement

 Even after half a century as a dedicated cyclist, I still don’t understand what goes on in the minds of traffic and transit planners.

There are the bike lanes to nowhere that seem to begin out of nowhere—not to mention the ones that are ill-placed, -constructed and -maintained.  Oh, and then there are lanes and turns that seem to be designed to put cyclists and pedestrians in the most possible danger.

Sometimes, though, I wonder whether those planners—those who enforce policies or the law—have any idea of what they’re trying to tell us or a working knowledge of the language in which they’re communicating.

In earlier posts I have given examples of signs that seem to contradict the intended message, or are simply confusing, because of poor logic, grammar or syntax—or seemingly-unintended oxymorons. To wit:

Now, perhaps I’m missing something but I don’t understand how something can be “loud” and a “muffler” at the same time.  And even if such a thing could exist, how could it be “enforced,” strictly or otherwise?  Is that sign warning people that if they enter New Rochelle without a “loud muffler,” they could be penalized?  If so, what does the city deem an appropriate punishment for something that, by definition, cannot exist?

For the record, I cycled into New Rochelle without a loud muffler. I wonder whether there will be a peacekeeping force of violent pacifists stationed at the border the next time I enter the city from Eastchester.

No Soy Una Cyclista Típica

 I may be, ahem, in midlife. So I might be slowing down. But, by virtue of half a century of dedicated cycling—and writing this blog, I can confidently make this claim about myself:

Enjoy Cinco de Mayo!

Really Old School

 Yesterday, while riding home, I stopped at Addeo’s: one of my “discoveries “ in my new neighborhood.

It’s in the same ZIP code, but some would argue it isn’t really in my neighborhood:  It’s on one side of the Fordham campus—in the “Little Italy” of the Bronx—while I live next to the Botanical Garden.

In any event, I first came across it about two weeks ago. I could tell it was an “old school” bakery even before I took my first bite of their wonderful breads. It not only has the look of an old Italian bakery in New York—like the ones I grew up with-it also bakes only breads, biscuits, rolls and cookies. If you want pastries or cakes, you can go to Egidio’s, which is just up the street. 

(The difference between those two bakeries is like that between a boulangerie and patisserie.)

Anyway, one thing that really reminded me that I was in the kind of bakery that’s almost impossible to find in New York, or the US, these days is when a woman about my age with what sounded like a Neapolitan accent took the loaf of bread I chose and, before I could finish saying, “no bag,” wrapped and presented it to me:

A loaf of bread, wrapped in paper and tied with string. How much more “old school” can you get than that?

What’s Happening To The Bike Biz?

 Four years ago, North America, Europe and other parts of the world were experiencing the biggest “Bike Boom” in decades.  It was a result of the COVID-19 pandemic, which engendered lockdowns and shutdowns. In the wake of social distancing and the closure of gyms, other recreational facilities and transit systems, bicycling became one of the few available options for transportation, exercise and simply getting out of one’s home.

Among the facilities that shut down were ones that produced bicycles and related equipment. Most of those factories are in Asian countries that were subjected to some of the strictest lockdowns and closures.

The inevitable result of surging demand and dwindling—or no—supply meant that people waited weeks or months not only for bikes and helmets, but for replacement parts, let alone accessories. Some shops—most notably Harris Cyclery (Sheldon Brown’s home base) closed.

Those closures were unfortunate, but remaining shops, online retailers and bicycle manufacturers themselves (who, remember, were dealing with supply chain disruptions) figured that all would be well once factories resumed production and transportation was back on track.  

It seems that the supply situation started to get back to “normal” around late 2021 or early 2022. Retailers bought up what they couldn’t get for the previous two years.By then, however, people who couldn’t get a bike gave up. And, those of us who are dedicated cyclists know at least one cyclist who simply has to have the newest and latest of everything, most people don’t trade in their bikes every few years the way other people do with their cars.

Now we are seeing a “bust.” Retailers are sitting on inventory they bought two years ago.  And they aren’t buying what manufacturers are making, and suppliers are providing, to “catch up” with previously-unmet demand.

The result is that businesses throughout the bike industry—from local shops to manufacturers and the mega-online retailers—are going bust. One notable recent casualty is Chain Reaction/Wiggle. Planet Cyclery is on its way to following them.Other “big wheels” are rumored to be in trouble. I won’t name them, simply because I don’t want to run the risk of setting off a panic over a business that might actually be doing OK.

One problem with the “fire sales” at retailers like Planet Cyclery—at least from the consumer’s point of view—is that the big discounts are on prices that were inflate by the pandemic because retailers and suppliers, when they finally could get inventory, were paying , in some cases, double or triple pre-pandemic prices.

So what will be the new “normal?” If I could predict such things…

The Best Of?

 As I wrote this, at 3:33 p.m. (15:33), bright sunshine fills the skies and streets around the Botanical Garden, where the temperature has risen to 75F (24C).

It’s hard to believe that when I rode early this morning, I saw this:

and this:

and the temperature was 52F (11C).

Still, I enjoyed my ride on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, down the Hudson River Greenway into lower Manhattan. I wore shorts and a flannel hoodie over a stretchy black short-sleeved top: enough to keep me warm yet still feel the bracing mist. 

You might say I had the best of both worlds. I would agree. Still, I’ll try to get in another, if shorter, ride after work. If I do, would that mean that I’ve ridden from the best of both worlds to the best of all worlds—or, at least all that are available at this time of year?

Hopefully, I Won't Have To Cry "May Day!"

Today, the first of May, is "May Day."

I didn't know, exactly, what this holiday commemorated--or even why it was on this date--until relatively recently.

According to several accounts I read, this date marked, on pagan calendars, the beginning of summer.  On or around this date in the Northern Hemisphere, the Earth is halfway between the Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice.  So why this would be considered the first day of summer--especially in the climates of some pagan lands--I don't know.

This date is also significant in the labor movement--again, for reasons I learned only recently.  In some countries, particularly in Europe, it's celebrated in much the same way as Labor Day (the first Monday in September) here in the US. Ironically, the origins of the European holiday--which is called International Workers' Day or some translation thereof--started as a commemoration of the Haymarket Massacre in Chicago.

From National Bike to Work Day

Another thing I learned only recently is the answer to this question:  How did "May Day" become a call of distress?  I thought it had its origins in how oppressed some workers were (and are); they would call "May Day" in much the same way others might cry "uncle" or call for their mothers.  That may be the case, but it seems that it originated with Frederick Mockford, a senior radio officer at London's Croydon Airport.  At that time--in the 1920's--air traffic over the English Channel was increasing, but still treacherous.  Apparently, Mockford took the French pilots' distress call, "M'aider!"--which means "Help me!" and sounds like "May Day" to Anglophone ears--and popularized it.

Today sunshine refracted through clouds is glinting off pavement and trees as it does after a night of rain.  The air is brisk, but not cold.  I am going for a ride--and I hope I won't have to call "Mayday!"